


Battle of Kirina

by cleveradjective



Category: Original Work
Genre: Blood, Dysfunctional Relationships, F/M, Guns, Mild Gore, Obsessive-Compulsive Disorder, Overthrowing Empires, its hetalia if you squint
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-02-28
Updated: 2015-02-28
Packaged: 2018-03-15 14:14:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,023
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3450146
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cleveradjective/pseuds/cleveradjective
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, maybe, when he was falling apart at the seams, she noticed. When he tapped on his door frames and stuttered over words, weakening day by day, she saw. Maybe it was when she found that robbers took bits and pieces of his mind until not much was left of it anymore, she decided. And maybe it was just because she couldn't stand it, not after so long.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Battle of Kirina

**Author's Note:**

> Alright! This is a project i did for my social studies class. The 'she' in this story is the Songhai Empire, which overthrew 'him', or the Mali Empire. There are a lot of stories revolving around the battle that took place, which is titled that Battle of Kirina, and our prompt was to write our own! So, taking some information from one of our textbooks, this piece was born. 
> 
> Not everything is completely accurate, but that's because I took some artistic liberties to sort of wiggle in a couple of my own characters' personalities for the Empires. And, instead of making Kings and Citizens, I generalized the Empires into single people. Morocco is vaguely mentioned at the end, because they ended the Songhai Empire when they brought in guns to West Africa. 
> 
> Enjoy!

“The bird of Kirina,” the man muttered as he looked into the sky, a black bird flying overhead.

The man fled to a far-away land, never seen again, even in his death.

* * *

 In the beginning, there was peace. .A holy matrimony between the two, a silence (pure, just _silence_ ) that neither knew could be broken. She did for him what she could do -- she gave him what she could, though maybe begrudgingly, and he thanked her (though he never gave back). She wasn't a silent partner -- she _complained_ , she _whined_ , but she never hurt him. She never did, until that day.

Maybe it was the way that she saw he treated everyone else. Maybe it was the way she saw that he _smiled_ and _laughed_ and **_gave_** , or maybe it was for the fact that he never gave to **her**. Maybe it was because she saw him love, and it wasn't **her** that he did. (It was always someone _else_ , someone _smaller_ , someone deemed more _pathetic_ ). 

* * *

 Or, maybe, when he was falling apart at the seams, she noticed. When he tapped on his door frames and stuttered over words, weakening day by day, she _saw_. Maybe it was when she found that robbers took _bits_ and _pieces_ of his mind until not much was left of it anymore, she decided. And maybe it was just because she couldn't stand it, not after so long.

* * *

 She tears him down into a convoluted mess of words that she cannot even **_begin_** to comprehend, now when her mind is cloudy with dark thoughts like this. She keeps him alive, and with her magic, she **_roars_** , and she spits out words of black magic that _curse_ him and _bind_ him and _shatter_ his breath.

He tries to use his own magic to take it back. He tries to run her out of **existence** , but she’s still there, and she always will be. He’s run out of time, and she’s broken him down, and now all that’s left of him is what they used to be.

When she held his hand when he cried and gave him all that she had, even the times that she had **nothing** to give.

All that’s left of her is the seething rage and _anarchy_ , tyranny so cruel. From above, thieves stole from him, and below, he rotted away, and all around him there she was, tearing him apart until all that was left was a latticework frame of what _used_ to be mighty -- what used to be seen as mighty as a _**god**_.

( ~~Not a god, not anymore. He isn't a god anymore.~~ )

* * *

 No matter how far he searched or traded, he could never find a _true_ way for it to stop. And as bandits stole from him the bits and pieces of what he called home, until he was shied away into a corner, she came unto him. She offered her hand, only to drag him down into a depth so deep that neither of them could ever arise from -- from which neither of them could ever recover.

* * *

 They’d like to say that they fought with **fire** and **magic** and _**hurricanes**_ and _**wind**_ , but that would be a lie. They’d like to say that they were _always_ like this -- always strong, and brave, but none of that could be true. They rose from the corpse and the ashes of previous empires, seedlings emerging from a nursing tree. She was thought of as a hero, after him. He was thought to be a villain, after her.

She was a villain, before _him_. He was a hero, before **her**.

Were they _villains_ or **heroes**? Could a hero _lie_ about how **cruel** she could be? Did a hero _lie_ , about how he’s _captured_ and _hurt_ and ruined his own name? He would spit out a ‘ _yes_ ’, if he were around, and curse her for being so foolish. Then he’d say it three times again to get the word off of his tongue.

* * *

 The fight was **_bloody_** and **_cruel_** and dripping with sorrow and hate. They **_slept_** in hatred, nearly drowned themselves in spite, for there was nothing to **do** but destroy the other. Nothing to _say_ but insults and musings about how bad they’d done it now. There was nothing in their world but each other, an obsession like a sickness, a number in his head repeating again and again.

Second. She, she would be the third. Is the third, reminding himself, because she has almost killed him _already_. She’s taken enough of him, backed him up so far, up to the battle, to know that he’s already gone. He’s already gone.

~~_He’s already gone._ ~~

* * *

 So in the morning she flayed him out for himself to see. In the afternoon, they _fought,_ and spat out **insults** and _infidelities_ like wildfire, not worrying about the carnage. In the evenings they drink each other like white wine, the bitter taste leaving scowls on their faces, shady eyes and flushed cheeks covering up the hurt.

* * *

 She _shatters_ him, one last time, before he runs away, and leaves everything to her. She leaves him broken, not bothering with a cast signed ‘ _worth it_ ’ in _neat, printed letters_ , because he didn't deserve that much. He rips out her brain and confuses her to no end, so why not make him crawl away? Why not make him hurt and try to pray, when he knew that it was **pointless**?

She would let out a cruel laugh if anyone ever told her that this was the man she had once followed. That this was the man she gave herself to, truly. She would laugh at them, but when she was alone, she would cry, because he was all that she had and she batted him down to a bloody mess of red and black and blue. 

She doesn't laugh anymore.

* * *

She falls to the blast of their guns, with bloodied lips and a snarling face. She dies as ferocious as she lived, while he fades away. And as the **_bang_** echoes and rings throughout, he shakes his head.

 **  
**She should have know better. Life ends not with _shouts_ , but **applause**.

**Author's Note:**

> Please kudos if you liked it, and comment if you have any questions or critique!


End file.
